


Gun Safety

by entanglednow



Category: White Collar
Genre: Gunplay, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-10
Updated: 2010-09-10
Packaged: 2017-10-14 12:31:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/149263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/entanglednow/pseuds/entanglednow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first thing Peter does is make sure it's not loaded and check the chamber.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gun Safety

The first thing Peter does is make sure it's not loaded and check the chamber.

Neal knows, because Peter's not the sort of person who wouldn’t do that. He's not the sort of person who could ever go that close to the edge. But Neal doesn't see him do it. The gun is just suddenly _there_. It's bright and cold and heavy, loosely gripped in Peter's hand, like it's a part of him. The fact that Neal doesn't know _for sure_ that it's not loaded. He doesn't know what to do with that.

"Hands over your head," Peter says roughly, and it's not a suggestion.

Neal inhales and obeys, fingers reaching up and folding round the headboard.

Peter shoves his thighs open with his free hand, leaves him like that for a long second, naked and stretched out. He watches him like he's trying to decide what to do with him.

There are a million things Neal could say, a dozen smiles he could give. But nothing comes out there's just white noise.

"Tell me you want it," Peter asks, as serious as Neal's ever heard him.

"I want it." He already sounds breathless, skin warm, hands sweating where they're squeezing the smooth metal at the top of the bed.

The gun's cold against the side of his face, metal hard where it digs into his jaw, harder when Peter puts pressure there. He swallows a moan and turns his head, lets Peter tuck the barrel up under his chin.

He makes a noise then, low and thready.

Peter stares down at him like he's something he can't quite work out.

The gun follows the twitching, gasping line of his throat and chest and Neal's losing air under the slow metallic roll of it. While his blood rushes down, leaves him suddenly, traitorously hard. It's an edge he's wanted, a need he's been holding on to tightly. All flavours of dangerous that he's never fucking dared ask for.

Not with anyone else.

Ever.

The gun slides down his stomach, tracing the muscle, falling through the trail of hair that leads down and Neal inhales, leaving a curve for the weapon to slide through, the smooth weight of it too real to leave his breathing anything like calm.

It presses brief and cold against his dick and Neal swears through his teeth, thighs shifting as Peter twists it until the barrel nudges at his balls.

Neal jerks, all the air in him rushing free in a noise that sounds shocked and helpless.

Peter's hand wraps round his thigh, eases it up the bed, leaves him spread open like a dare and Neal's legs is tensing and relaxing in his grip like it can't stop. Peter's fingers tighten like he has no intention of letting it go.

"You'd let me slide it all the way inside you, wouldn’t you? All cold metal and hard edges."

Neal struggles for breath.

"Wouldn't you?" Peter says fiercely and it's almost an accusation.

"Peter -" It's not a protest.

"Answer me."

Neal breathes out, manages something broken, ragged, something that sounds like 'yes.'

Peter wouldn't - Neal knows he wouldn't. But that doesn't stop the slice of shivery, desperate lust from digging all the way through him.

Because he could - and the thought of it, _God_ the thought of it leaves his thighs twitching and shifting open wider and _wanting_ it.

"Tell me," Peter says, voice slow and soft. "Tell me how much you want it, tell me what you want me to do."

Neal’s not sure anymore, not sure how far Peter will go, because he does that blank expression far too well. Everything carefully packed away and slid behind a blind and Neal doesn't know anymore. Neal can't read him, can't read him at all.

"Ask for it."

Neal hisses something frustrated. "Fuck, Peter, please."

"Please what?"

Neal's shaking and there's not a chance in hell he's going to last long enough to do anything, to feel anything, body on a knife edge of need. He can barely swallow, fingers clenching and relaxing, metal digging into both palms.

"Please, just - fuck, inside me," he manages, all breath and shaky urgency.

"Me, or the gun?" Peter asks, still so calm, still so impossibly, flatly calm. Though the fingers wrapped round Neal's thigh are tight enough to burn, tight enough to leave a twitch in the muscle.

The gun drags round, curves over the underside of his thigh like a tease, then slips lower. Neal lifts his hips and fucking _whines._

It's just the slightest press against the twitching muscle of his ass. The brief, shocking, and uncomfortable stretch of the barrel breaching him. Neal's head falls back, thighs tensing while he groans and comes over his own stomach with a shivering intensity that leaves the world grey at the edges.

  



End file.
